A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  She tapped small stones in front of the tablets, and more words appeared, very fast, so much faster than scribing them or cutting them. He watched for a moment. She dragged another stone and a section lit in blue, disappeared, and appeared on the rightmost screen.

  “What are you inscribing?” he asked.

  “I am recording our levels of commisaria and loges.”

  She had a fine arse, excellent teats, and that striking straw-colored hair with blue eyes. A northerner for certain. A barbarian woman. Yet she was optio to the tribune, literate, and apparently a soldier.

  Their banduka were faster shooting, tremendously more powerful and better crafted than those the Mughal barbarians had. They could see in the dark, light the dark, and their Optio Valetudinarii Arminius, the African, was very good with surgery. Truly the gods blessed these men and women, but here they were, consigned to the savage world of stone-chipping barbarians.

  The other female arrived to take him to the forge, where he was to work with Centurio Martin. She carried one of the banduka and a knife almost as big as a gladius, but single edged.

  “I am Optio Statorum Jennifer Caswell,” she said slowly.

  “Why is your uniform blue, Optio?” he asked. She was wearing the shapeless silky covering they wore for exercise and casual work. The others he’d seen were gray.

  “I am from a different . . . separate . . . legio,” she said.

  “Oh? What is your legio?”

  “Aeronauticus.”

  “Air and sea?”

  “Solo air. Felix is a mares. Barker used to be.”

  “Nauta,” he offered.

  “Gratias. Nauta. Felix is an inquisitor. Our navis are a tertia of a mile long, travel thirty miles in an hour, and have great guns that can demolish cities.” She used her hands for emphasis and counting as she walked.

  He did not think she was joking.

  “What is aeronauticus? To navigate with air?”

  “Aer perum et caelo,” she said. “We fly.”

  “With Apollo’s help?”

  She grinned. “We have an aerovehicle named Apollo, actually. You’re aware straw rises in flame from the calor. Suffice calor, ventus impetus, can levitate a vehicle into the air. We fly across continents. That’s how we came to Asia from the occidens.”

  It was hard to translate, and sounded ridiculous. Was that true?

  “How fast do you go?”

  “Say that again, please.”

  “What velocity is achieved?”

  “Ah. Inter duo cento miles in an hour to tri milles, depending on what type of craft.”

  Not even the gods could travel that fast. But they must. Unless she was lying. He didn’t think she was lying. “That would span the Empire in a hour.”

  “Yes, easily. Our . . . well, I suppose it is an empire, stretches tri milles miles across a continent, and we travel to other continents to fight, trade and visit. The Nauta has craft that fly from ships, too.”

  She delivered him to Centurio Martin and Tesserarius Robertus, who had a brisk fire in their forge. It was a bit odd-shaped of a forge, but certainly hot enough.

  He realized he’d been completely distracted from Jenfer’s striking green eyes and pale skin. Oh, to sire sons on her.

  “Gratus, Publius,” Martin welcomed him.

  “Greetings. Your women tell fanciful tales of flying through the air and of all your troops being literate.”

  Martin smiled oddly and said, “I’m literate in our language, somewhat in Latin, in Germanic and in Gaulish.”

  “I see,” he said, not entirely believing. It was almost as if they were trying to impress him. Trying hard. On the other hand, that was how diplomacy worked. But he was only a smith, not a centurion.

  “Well, we nullus cognosci a multitude. Multum ferro work is by carborundum magnum segmentum cum tools. Forging is limited. So we request assistance. Especially as we mostly work with optimum ferrum, hard and clean.”

  “I see your wagons are made of iron,” he said.

  “Yes, milles of libre of it. We have no way to separate one, though.”

  Thousands of pounds of iron? He looked at the wagons. Yes, thinking about it, they had to be. That was a Vulcan-blessed lot of metal. He had trouble with the last part, but it was about making pieces from it, he thought.

  “Grind it,” he said.

  Robertus said, “It would take forever.”

  “If you have a century of men with hard lime, you could create a powder of good ore.”

  The two looked at each other.

  “That’s not impossible,” Martin said. “It’s not for now, though.”

  “Well, what can I show such masters as yourselves?” he asked, not entirely joking. Their Latin was laughable, but he could puzzle it out with pantomime. They knew a lot of bases, but had no grasp of grammar. They had a lot of Germani in there.

  Martin handed him a hammer, and it was the nicest hammer he’d ever held. The grip was shaped to swing in the hand, of some very strong wood. The head had a flat face and a peen, and its balance was very sweet. He let it drop in his hand, and it fell right where he wanted.

  Martin showed him several tools.

  “I can manage tangs and sockets, after a fashion. I need to fabricate improved sockets. I’m no bueno cum cavum shapes, either.”

  “Show me what you are doing.”

  Publius watched the two of them work, and tried not to smile. They worked hard, pumping, heating, beating. For basic drawing and upsetting, Martin wasn’t bad. However, he was charitably at the level of apprentice.

  To be fair, his anvil was rock, and without a good large furnace, making a proper iron one would be difficult.

  “It’s easier to raise bowls over a form than dish them,” he said. “Can you find a domed stone and set it in a wooden block?”

  “I can. Sic dishing plates—cavum fasciendum? for making hollows, though. I just don’t possess unum.”

  “Those are for shallow items only.”

  “Ah.”

  “You are welding too hot.”

  “I know. I’m experience cum materia that require extreme calor.”

  “What flux is that?”

  “Straw ash.” He had to examine it to determine the words. Yes, that was marginal.

  “You have salt, yes? Salt and clean sand with some iron filings will work much better.” He had to demonstrate with latter with their sharp file on a scrap piece, and point at the streambank for sand.

  “Huh. That makes sense. It’s not what we used at home.” Martin might be a good centurio, but he was not much of a smith.

  He talked and showed how to dome metal and planish it evenly. The granite anvil wasn’t flat, but did give enough resistance. It was hard, sweaty work.

  Their hammers were amazing, though. He’d never held anything like them. They were heavy, but very balanced and effective.

  He became aware that Optio Regina was pointing something at them, and the two “Cogi” were staring from a short distance. He raised his head to look at them.

  “I am making engravings,” she said.

  “Engravings?”

  “Using a similar method to my screens. We call them photo graphs.”

  “Screens?”

  She sketched a rectangle in the air.

  “Ah, your tablets.”

  “Yes, gratias.”

  He stepped back, panting, and Martin took over while Robertus pumped the bellows for him.

  Optio Regina turned her device around, and there was a tablet on it, with a miniature picture of him working, as if seen by eyeball. It was not engraved or painted. It was flat, and it was completely perfect. It was a light-picture. It was so perfect it scared him. Then he thought how well it could relay information.

  “How does that work?” he asked.

  “The light is gathered and stimulates small cells like a fly’s oculus. Each cell, called a ‘pixel,’ appears on the tablet. They are identified by location on the tablet and color for reconst
ruction later.”

  “But there must be thousands of them,” he said. It was a picture as vivid as the eye showed.

  “Decem millions,” she said. “The camera has a modus to sort them.”

  He could well believe the ten of them could easily fight the entire Roman century, given their devices and knowledge. Yet they were ignorant of charcoal making and basic smithing.

  Martin stepped back from the rock anvil and held up the piece he was working on. It now looked like a deep ladle with a long handle welded on. Martin seemed pleased with himself.

  Publius decided not to mention that he’d done better ones by age twelve.

  “That is the way,” he said. “But you will need more practice.”

  “I’ll be getting it,” Martin said. “Would you like to examine our baths? I wonder how they compare to yours.”

  Publius understood they were using hospitality to gain information. The centurio had warned of that, but they hadn’t asked about anything the Romans had in the way of weapons or tactics. They didn’t seem to care about those things at all.

  But atop the wagon, the one called Felix sat with that large banduka that could fire dozens of projectiles in a moment, through solid logs. It would destroy the century in seconds if turned on them.

  They understood Latin adequately, but there were obvious Germani words in their speech. He recognized them from his first campaign. Had future Rome become so corrupted by barbarians?

  He would not want to fight them, however.

  At lunch, they served a salted fish and salted pork, with nuts. He sat under the awning for the purpose, and continued talking to Martin and Robertus.

  “Your double bellows is impressive.”

  “Thank you. I wish I had more practice. We appreciate the trade.”

  Publius wasn’t sure exactly what was being traded. Just that he was helping them with smithing, and something in return was coming to the Romans.

  Another sat down next to him, with light hair, bronze skin and solid muscles. A definite warrior.

  “I am Richard Dalton. Tesserarius in line.”

  “Publius Horatius Naevius.”

  “I am pleased to meet you. May I offer you wine?”

  “Of course you may, and thank you.” He accepted a kidney-shaped metal cup with wine in the bottom third. It was full of sediment and a bit sour, but strong and clean enough. It washed down the salted meat just fine.

  “What year are you from in Rome?” Tesserarius Richard asked him.

  “The ninth year of Claudius Imperator.”

  Richard grinned and clapped. “Perfect. You’ve heard of Jesus Christ?”

  “I don’t know that name.” The fish was some form of river trout. Quite good. There were herbs with the salt. There were no crops here, but there were wild herbs and the Americani knew of them, it seemed. He might ask for those, too. The gods knew the food in camp was mostly rice and boiled goat.

  Tesserarius Richard said, “A Nazarene . . . priest, I guess. In Judea.”

  “I have not served in Judea.” This was an odd query.

  “He performed miracles, and was executed by Pontius Pilate. He ambulated on water, fed five milles people with only a minuscule basket of food. And after being crucified, he vivified on the third day.” It took Publius a bit to determine what all that meant. It sounded like any number of stories.

  He asked, “Which gods did he invoke?”

  “The one true God of the Jews, and now the Christians, named after him.”

  “I haven’t heard of this. There are a lot of priests all over Judea, though.” One god? That was the Jews. This man claimed to worship the Jewish god?

  The man was insistent. “He would have mortare only a few anno ago.”

  “I have not heard of this priest you revere.”

  The answer obviously frustrated Richard, who said, “Very well. Gratias for assisting with your responses.”

  “Thank you for the fish,” he said. “It is delicious.”

  He saw Centurio Martin smile, and wondered what the joke was.

  Their bath wasn’t very good, either, but it was quite warm and clean.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sean Elliott was satisfied with progress. It was May and humid and warm, and the creek was drying up again, but the well was clean and produced water. He’d devised a sand and gravel filter with a leather catch basin. He planned to replace that with concrete, hopefully this year because he didn't want to depend exclusively on the Cogi's filter. Roman concrete wasn’t great, but wasn’t bad, and the local Romans had knowledge of it.

  Their periodic visits had been carefully orchestrated to get technical knowledge from them, while imparting as much awesome as possible through real but impressive claims of American military might. It seemed to be working.

  As for his element, he couldn’t ask for better people. Their personalities clashed as much as anyone’s, but their breadth of knowledge was amazing and their determination shone through. They’d survive. The only questions were how far they could advance, and how much information could they leave for the next generation of theirs, or of the Urushu.

  He saw Oglesby walking his way with one of the Gadorth. It was interesting how most of the soldiers had turned into managers and liaison, now that they had trustworthy local labor.

  “What’s up?” he greeted.

  “Hey, sir, Sadi’a is a junior chief for the village.” He indicated the local.

  Sean nodded acknowledgment and said, “Relay my greetings. What’s up?”

  “He says we have to plan a hunt for midsummer.”

  “Okay. A ceremonial thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re in. Traditional or guns?”

  “Traditional. Spear throwers and hand-thrown spears.”

  “Okay. Can we wear body armor? It’s our traditional dress, after all.”

  Oglesby spoke clearly overall, with some pauses and hesitations, and pantomimed armor.

  “Sir, they say if that’s our traditional clothing for hunting, we should of course wear it. They’ d like us to use their traditional weapons.”

  “Seems fair. Is this a cow? A bear? Something cool?”

  “Yes, sir. A rhino.”

  “A . . . rhino.” That sounded dangerous, and horribly unPC.

  “With spears. They specifically want Doc along, too.”

  “Well, good. I guess.” Rhinos, with spears. “Do we really need to do this?”

  “It’s important to them, sir. They do it every midsummer. They ask for our two best hunters.”

  That was complicated. The best hunters would be Barker and Dalton. However, as commander, he should lead by example. Except if he did get badly hurt, then leadership could be damaged.

  “I’ll send two hunters and Doc,” he said. “After we consult with the spirits on who is best suited.”

  Jenny Caswell had mixed feelings. Being selected as a hunter was good, if it was to show equality, bad if she was a token.

  Then, there was killing a rhino. She didn’t like killing animals anyway, and this was a magnificent beast whose entire genus was near extinct in their era. This species was already gone.

  It felt a lot as if she’d been railroaded into it, and couldn’t gracefully bow out.

  Stupid male egos were part of the culture here. If only that could be directed somewhere else. It was much easier to do that with a modern, technological society.

  She had three javelins, with hardened steel tips Spencer had forged for her, and fletched by Bob. Then she had a heavier stabbing spear, with a tubular iron point to cause hemorrhaging, cut from a pipe section from Number Eight.

  Other than that, she had helmet, armor with plate, and a Camelbak Hawg with a handful of useful things in the outer pocket.

  Elliott, Doc and she, three Urushu in rawhide, three Gadorth in armor of hardened hides, and two Romans in their armor plodded uphill to find a rhino. They were following a watercourse smaller than their own.

  One of the Urushu,
Zhu!yi, pointed, cupped his hands, and said, “Ak!a.”

  She raised cupped hands to her lips. “Ak!a?” she asked. “Drink?”

  “No. Ak!a.” Zhu!yi moved his hands around in a circle.

  “Pond or lake, I think. Mare.”

  One of the Romans, Fulvius, grinned. “Lacus.”

  “Okay, good. We’re looking for rhino at a lake.” She pantomimed a horn and drinking.

  “Yes.” Zhu!yi nodded.

  It was amazing how a few words and signs could be used so well.

  On they trod. It wasn’t a long trip, but it was all uphill and cross country. It was hot, sticky and dusty, and she wasn’t as tall as the Urushu or Doc or Elliott. The Romans clustered back with her. She could tell they were watching her, and was glad for weapons and the male soldiers.

  There weren’t any Latin comments she wasn’t supposed to hear, so that was good. She was not going to drop farther back, though. She lengthened her pace and moved forward, almost trotting to keep up with Elliott. He looked over at her, she looked back, he nodded and said nothing. He didn’t slow down either.

  Good. He understood.

  A half hour later, they were up on the higher plain. It was rolling, scrubby ground with short, twisted trees, as she remembered. There were occasional bursts of green and taller brush in low areas, but no actual watercourses. There was a depression with muddy water in it, either from dew and rain, or from a water table in the bedrock. Far to the south were the long, low lines of the Hindu Kush.

  Here there were saiga and some of the prettier antelope in family groups. The grass shifted now and then as burrowers ran underneath. A herd of aurochs grazed far to the east, and ahead, rhino.

  Zhu!yi pointed at each of them, and a direction, and gestured envelopment. He indicated a horn and said, “Sita,” meaning “Small.”

  “Minisculus,” said Elliott.

  She added, “Stihb,” for the Gadorth. She’d been picking up some vocabulary.

  Zhu!yi indicated a smaller beast at edge of the group, probably a yearling.

  Then she was trudging through waist-high scrub with Elliott, plodding through the heat, approaching the rear of the herd, where they hoped to surround and kill a baby rhino.

  It seemed like a hell of a challenge, and that made it even more offensive. In a few thousand years, these animals would be on the verge of extinction. Even here, they were a trophy. The Woolly Rhino had been almost extinct in Gadorth territory, as far as anyone could tell. It was a magical beast to them, and they needed to kill one for some fucked up reason of chest-thumping.